There will almost certainly be more frosts. There may even be more snow in the mountains. The mornings still have that unmistakable Canberra bite, and every now and then we’re reminded that winter hasn’t finished with us yet.

And yet…

Something has changed.

The wattles are beginning to flower. The birds seem a little busier. The afternoons linger just a little longer in the light, and every now and then, standing in the sunshine, you catch yourself thinking, it feels different.

Not spring.

Not yet.

But the warming beginning of it.

I love this time of year because it reminds me that nature never changes all at once. It begins long before most of us notice.

Long before calendars were printed on our phones, people looked to the land to understand the passing of the seasons.

They noticed when the first blossoms appeared.

When lambs began to arrive.

When the birds changed their song.

When the light lingered just a little longer in the afternoon.

Across the world, these subtle shifts became moments worth marking. We’ve lost some of their names, but the themes were the same.

In the Gaelic tradition this seasonal threshold became known as Imbolc. In Christian Europe it became Candlemas, a festival celebrating the return of light. In Japan, the beginning of spring is marked by Risshun, accompanied by the clearing rituals of Setsubun, where the old season is swept away to make room for the new. 

Different names.

Different stories.

The same observation.

Something is beginning.

Here on Ngunnawal Country, seasonal change has always been understood by watching Country itself rather than by dates on a calendar. The flowers, the birds, the weather, the insects and the stars all tell us what is changing, if we’re willing to pay attention. “Fake Winter”, as it’s known, lets us know that we’re out of the depths now, and emerging into something new.

I think there’s something deeply comforting about that.

It reminds us that the land has always known what to do.

One of my favourite ways to think about this time of year is as waxing light.

The light is returning, gently, undramatically, just enough that the world begins responding. As as nature ourselves, so do our bodies’ circadian rhythms.

It’s still winter; the warmth hasn’t fully arrived, but the days are quietly growing longer and life is beginning to stir.

The bulbs that looked dormant a few weeks ago are stretching upwards. The trees are preparing buds we won’t fully appreciate for another month. Some things are still gestating beneath the soil. Others are just beginning to emerge.

Nature doesn’t wait until everything is perfect before beginning again.

It starts gently.

Almost imperceptibly.

I wonder if we’re allowed to do the same.

I think many of us make the same mistake every year: The moment we notice a little more energy, we assume we should do more.

Start the exercise program.

Declutter the whole house.

Launch the project.

Say yes to everything we’d put on hold through winter.

We confuse the first signs of life with full bloom.

But nature never does that; the first shoots don’t burst into flowers overnight, the lambs don’t arrive fully grown. Everything has its season. Everything unfolds in its own time.

Maybe this isn’t the season to transform your life.

Maybe it’s simply the season to notice what is beginning.

Across many traditions, this threshold between winter and spring has been associated with birth, renewal, inspiration, healing and tending the home.

Not because everything is ready, but because life has begun stirring beneath the surface.

There’s a beautiful gentleness to that. Easeful.

Instead of dramatic change, maybe it’s just making space.

And in fact, in times gone by, this is when we did spring cleaning. Historically, this was the time when homes were opened after winter. Fires were cleaned. Windows were thrown open. Fresh air returned. The dust of winter was swept away in preparation for what was coming.

I think we can do something similar within ourselves.

Rather than a complete reinvention, just a clearing, declutter, freshening.

You could ask yourself:

• What habits no longer fit?
• What thoughts have become stale?
• What would you like to create a little more space for?

So instead of asking yourself what you want to achieve this year, perhaps ask something smaller.

What feels like it’s beginning? Or could begin?

What tiny seed would you like to nurture over the coming months?

Maybe it’s one conversation, one class, one walk, one hour that’s just yours, one new way of speaking to yourself, one gentle act of care.

The beautiful thing about seeds is that they don’t demand certainty.

They simply ask to be tended

Over the next seven weeks at Soma, we’ll be exploring this journey together as we move towards the Spring Equinox.

Not rushing.

Not pushing.

Just paying attention.

We’ll be talking about what the changing season can teach us about our bodies, our nervous systems, our relationships and the rhythms that help us flourish.

Because perhaps the invitation of this season isn’t to become someone new.

Perhaps it’s simply to notice the woman who has been quietly growing beneath the surface all winter.

The light is returning.

Not all at once.

Just enough to begin.

And perhaps that’s enough. 🌿